


We Hold Sacred the Toll

by LaurelynFaye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Gen, Robb Stark- King in the North, Will Be Explained Later, also everyone is aged up just a little bit, but quick to respect, female infantcide, mentioned in passing - Freeform, not much, not physical, roll with it, slow to love, the frey's aren't scum, the young wolf, they're actually pretty great, weird i know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3768856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelynFaye/pseuds/LaurelynFaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Frey's aren't exactly what Robb was expecting. In fact, they're not what anyone was expecting. It changes things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Hold Sacred the Toll

The Twins, and its surrounding lands were not what Robb was expecting. Everyone had heard tales of the Freys, of Lord Walder Frey, who has more children than he knows what to do with, and it is said, less honor than the baseborn, bastard son of an oathbreaker. Even his mother, who was typically generous with her judgement of all who were not either Lannisters or his brother, seemed disdainful of them. He hadn’t had any conscious expectations he supposed, other than what one would expect of the seat and lands of a family so harshly judged. He had thought that perhaps the Twins and the Crossing would be an ugly place, the Frey’s land ill cared for, and their people poorly fed and sullen. It is not so.  
The lands Robb’s army had crossed, lands the Freys and their bannermen were responsible for, were flourishing. There was no great beauty in them, you understand, not like the harsh beauty of the North, with its wild, untamed lands, still echoing with the remnants of the Children of the Forest. However, there was a quiet appeal in the well kept roads, the farmlands that swayed heavy with crops, stretching miles in any direction, broken only by green pastures grazed by cattle, and the occasional forest, kept by some assiduous woodsman.   
This was not a harsh place, like the North, where the land yielded only what you won from it with sweat and blood. Instead this was a land that was a mother to its people, cradling them in its arms. The people showed that, in every way. Where he had been expecting sullen, unfriendly people, ill fed and ill tempered with neglect from their lords, he found instead a cheerful, hardworking people, wary, but not unfriendly or unkind. Children tending flocks and herds in groups of 3-always groups of 3- would spot his army, and one would go shooting off, leaving the others to watch, wide eyes awed, as his host rode on. The children must have carried the message back to their village, as they were inevitably met by the leaders of each hamlet they rode through, who offered hospitality.   
Though he refused the first few times, when they came to a larger town and were welcomed by the Lord of the holdfast, who insisted, his mother encouraged him to accept, hoping to hear what news they might offer. It was then that he, and his men, learned the truth of the legendary hospitality of the Riverlanders of the neck.  
When he had accepted the Lord had clapped his hands together, and with a booming roar ordered them feasted in style. After that point Robb only had vague memories, of good ale, warm food, and music. Apparently people from the villages in the area had gathered and made a party of it. In other words, the people were well fed, well treated, and good tempered, and the land flourished.   
As for the Twins and the Crossing, it was nothing like he had been expecting. His mother spoke of the place and its Lord with ill veiled disdain, and he had expected a monstrosity, ugly and sore against the lad, with no beauty or comfort in it. He was, once again, wrong. To be sure it was an austere place, built for war, with its deep moats and numerous archer slits, but, it too had a certain appeal. The stones of the keep and crossing were plain grey and large, but ivy had grown along the walls reaching up the rock, and the treetops of a god’s wood were visible over the edge of an outer wall. It was not unattractive, altogether.  
Still, for all that it was not what he was expecting, Robb was ill at ease. His mother had been escorted in to treat with Lord Frey for crossing hours ago, and if she could not succeed he and his his men would not arrive to Riverrun for weeks.   
When she returned he almost wished she had failed.  
“He insists I marry one of his daughters now?” he asked, incredulously. His advisors shifted around him, muttering, whether at his question or the requirement he did not know, and could not bring himself to care. His mother had warned of the arrogance of Walter Frey, but this… this was beyond the pale.   
His mother stared at him, mournful, and nodded. “If you wish to cross, you must have wedded one of his daughters” she sighed.  
Robb closed his eyes. Father, Arya, Sansa. Family, Duty, Honor. Winter is coming. Finally, he nodded.  
“Then I accept.” He said firmly, looking around at his bannermen, daring them to object. When none did he turned back towards his mother. “You were there Mother, did you meet any of his daughters? Were there any…” he trailed off. His mother had a slight, bemused smile, etched across her mouth, as though she had been proven wrong, and though confused, was not necessarily displeased.   
“I was introduced to all of Lord Frey’s daughter’s. I was…” she trailed off “suprised. Many of them appear to have taken after their mothers, rather than their father.” She paused, taking a sip from the goblet of wine in front of her, and Robb had the sudden impression his mother was hiding a mischievous smile. “There is one girl, the oldest, at 16. Lord Frey was reluctant to introduce us, as she appears to be the Lady of the house, instead of his new wife. I believe that you ought to talk to her.”   
He nodded, sighing. “Lord Umber, if you’d be so kind as to inform Sir Stevron that I accept his father’s terms, and request his eldest sister to dine with me, I would speak with my mother.” The GreatJon nodded, and strode away, inclining his head to both Starks as he went. Robb settled into his chair at the war table, eyes closed, and listening to the sounds of his lords leaving, murmuring their respects to his mother as they took their leave.   
When he felt his mother’s hand on his he opened his eyes, and met hers. Tully blue met Tully blue, and they shared a moment, each thinking on the Tully words- Family, Duty, Honor.  
She smiled sadly, and reached out to brush a stray curl from his face. “I wish you could marry for love, my boy,” she whispered pressing a kiss to his forehead, “but Winter is Coming, and the fate of your father and sisters could depend on this. The girl is pretty enough, and well… I suppose you’ll find out soon enough. Though,” she frowned, “I would not have let you gain Walter Frey as a goodfather if I could have helped it.”   
He laughed, and if it was a tad bitter, well, his mother didn’t comment on it.   
They sat in silence for a time, interrupted only by a squire, who informed them that “Lady Frey accepted Lord Stark’s invitation to dine, and will arrive a quarter of an hour before sundown, if it should please my lord.”   
Before Robb left to make ready his mother stopped him. “When I spoke with the girl I may have... implied that, if you asked to speak with her, it would be on the subject of which of her sisters you should marry.” She looked down, ashamed, and his eyes widened. His mother didn’t lie. “She has, for the most part, raised her younger sisters, as her father’s wives are timid, and die in childbirth often enough. I sensed that she would be… reluctant, at best, to leave them. And Lord Frey, for all he promised that you could have your pick of his daughters, would be most resistant to the idea of losing the acting Lady of his castle,” his mother finished, spitefully. “Just, keep that in your mind, Robb.”

When she arrived, it was precisely 15 minutes to sunset, and on a horse, which she rode well. Robb admitted to himself, grudgingly, that this place and it’s people had once again defied his expectations. His bannermen had warned him that she would be either early or late, in an attempt to assert power, and he had expected her to come in a wheelhouse, which that seemed to be the thing southron ladies did. As her brother assisted her in dismounting, her took the opportunity to observe her. His mother was right, she was pretty enough, no great beauty like his mother, or Sansa, but certainly not ugly. Her hair was long and brown, her face amiable enough, and though she likely stood shorter than him by a head and a half, her shape was fairly womanly. It would be no hardship to marry her, if all he ever had to was look at her.  
His mother stepped forward to introduce them, and she greeted her with a small smile and a nod.   
“Lady Leera, allow me to introduce my son, Lord Robb Stark, of Winterfell,” she gestured, “Robb. this is Lady Leera Frey, of the Twins and the Crossing.”  
The girl curtsied, with a crisp “Lord Stark”, as he bowed. An awkward moment of silence stretched before Robb took control of the situation.   
“Shall we, Lady Frey?” he asked, offering his arm, and indicated, with a wave the tent, it’s flaps pulled back, a meal for two set just inside, and is taken aback when she smiles tightly.  
“I suppose we must, Lord Stark.” she said, through clenched teeth, taking his arm delicately. As it was he barely managed to maintain a plain face, though some of his bannermen were not so composed, various eyes widening, and several of them seemed to splutter. Her brother, on the other hand, was visibly amused, with a raised eyebrow, and a quirked mouth. There was a twinkle in his eyes that seemed to wish him luck, as he would surely need it.   
Gods be merciful, what had his mother gotten him into!

They sat in stilted silence for a time, as the few overtures to conversation Robb made fell flat, met by impeccably, impossibly, infuriatingly, proper “No my lord”s “yes my lord”s and “I’m sure my lord”s. He was searching for something, anything, to say as she idly contemplated her wine goblet, when he stumbled upon it.  
“The Twins are not what I was expecting” he ventured, somewhat desperately and is surprised when her eyes snap to his, hard, and her mouth twists into a bitter smirk.  
“Oh, my lord?” she drawled, “and what were you expecting? A tiny bridge, huts on either side, with children spilling out of every window? Or was it a castle and bridge crumbling to decay under the weight of my father’s lack of honor, and abundance of children?”   
Robb is startled into defensiveness, as that was precisely what he had been expecting. “Lady Frey… I, it was not my int-” he sputtered, stopping as she waved him off.   
“It’s fine” she said, leaning back, her smile now smug. “It’s what everyone expects, and your mother is a Tully. We offend their highly developed sensitivities for sport and they smear our name behind our backs. It’s worked that way for centuries, and will probably work that way for many more.” She shrugged, “It’s not like in the North, where the Starks have ruled for thousands of years. The Tullys were made Lords Paramount by Aegon, mostly because they were the first to bend the knee. We like to remind them of that from time to time, and it tends to get them all in a tizzy.”  
He nodded, eyeing her. She had gone from placid to angry to sarcastic in heartbeats, and he couldn’t be sure what mood might take her next.   
“My mother has mentioned your family on occasion. I believe she resents that your father did not call the banners during Robert’s Rebellion until it was already essentially won, and she isn’t pleased that your father’s troops have yet to join the fight for the Riverlands.” he said in return. Instead of the defense he expects she rolled her eyes and sipped her wine with an irritated sigh.  
“Typical Tully.” She leaned forward, “do you know the Frey words, Lord Stark?”. He did. We hold sacred the toll, unsurprising considering the family seat.   
“We hold sacred the toll” she mused, leaning back once more, “for all that it’s true, we also hold to the Tully words, or at least our interpretation of them,” dismissing the difference with a wave of her hand. “Family. Duty. Honor. In other words, family first, duty second, and honor dead last.”  
Robbs eyes narrowed as she chuckled lowly, continuing. “Do you know how long it’s been since a Frey has died in war, My Lord Stark?” and continued before he could answer, “Not since the Blackfyre rebellions.” Another pause, another sip of wine. “Look around you Robb Stark. Our people do not want for food, even in Winter, and in Summer they do not toil so that to take a day for the festivals would mean their family hurts for it. Our lands flourish, untouched by war or battle for generations. Why do you think that is, Lord Stark?” She asked, eyebrow raised.  
“I do not know my Lady,” he ground out “I beg you, enlighten me.”  
She sipped her wine and allows the silence to stretch before speaking. “Because, my Lord Stark, we hold sacred the toll. If the price for the safety of our kin, and the fulfillment of our duty, in the wellbeing of our people and lands, is our honor, then we pay it gladly. My family is safe and whole, our people well fed and at peace- honor can go to the 7 hells.” She declared, draining her wine, and setting it atop the table upside down.  
In that moment Robb understood. “That is why your father demands that I marry one of his daughters. He will not go to war for loyalty or honor, but family?” he smiled, wicked, “That’s an entirely different circumstance, isn’t it?” Her head tilted, and she glanced off to the side, which is enough to confirm his accusations, and so he let it pass.  
“My mother tells me that you have had a hand in rearing your younger sisters. Will you tell me of them?” he asksed, changing the subject entirely.   
She stared at him for a moment, clearly torn. Suddenly, she smiled, and it is the smile of a proud parent asked to speak about their children, lighting up her face, and he found himself intrigued.  
The tension in the room gradually faded as she spoke of her middle sisters, who are nine and seven, and apparently determined not to become ladies, racing around the Crossing any chance they have, skirts hiked up to their knees, and refusing to attend their lessons. He is near tears when she tells him of her 10 year old sister falling in the garderobe, and being stuck there for nearly an hour before someone realized where she was. He cannot help but grimace is sympathy as she bemoans her three 13 year old sisters, who are identical triplets, and adamant that they are adults and should be able to do as they like. He is fascinated as she glows, talking of her youngest sister who is just learning to walk, but crawls determinedly everywhere, whose first word was “LeeLee”, and the toddler of five, who refuses to learn her letters, despite everyone’s best efforts.   
She is a little less enthusiastic when she speaks of the sisters who are a tad older, and he has to wonder if this is because she fears losing them. She tells him of a pair of 14 year old twins, as different as night and day in both looks and temperament, but utterly devoted to each other, still refusing to sleep in separate beds. Finally she talks of a 15, almost 16 year old girl, her only full blooded sister, the image of their beloved mother, with a voice as clear as a nightingale. Interspersed are stories of teaching the older girls to run a castle, or deal with bannermen, and the disasters and successes that followed, or little asides about their various talents and hobbies. She might not wish to let them go, but she isn’t attempting to hide anything from him, and that alone is worthy of respect. After she is finished they are well into their meal, trenchers nearly empty, and they spend several minutes in the raucous noise of his men taking their evening meal and bedding down for the night.   
Finally he leaned forward. “You know of my accord with your father. After this meal I believe that you know your father’s daughters best, of anyone in Westeros. Who do you think I should wed?” he asked gently.  
A deep breath. “That depends, my lord, on what you wish for in a wife. If you wish for a lady who can run your castle and raise your children well then I would say wed Thyla. She is the one who helped me raise our sisters, and assists me in the running of the Twins. If you want a wife who can dance and sing and sew and charm your lords right out of their Northern sternness then I would say Rosalin, with the knowledge that wherever she goes, so too will her twin, and if you want a wife who is fierce and wild, with a will that bends even steel, then marry Lyra, with the same knowledge.” As she finished she held her hands out, palms up, seeming to tell him that the decision lay in his hands.   
He stared at her for a brief moment, before reaching out and taking one of the offered hands.   
“And if I told you I wanted as a wife the woman who taught them all those things, and raised them into who they are?” he asked.  
Her eyes jerked to his, hazel meeting blue, and she paused before opening her mouth to speak...

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had this idea, and I can't explain too much, because spoilers. But, essentially, The Frey's aren't as bad as everyone thinks, it's just that they don't give a shit what everyone else thinks. Because Family comes first, then duty, and the rest can go screw itself. Also, don't own.


End file.
